Dead Bats Don't Bite
by waspinthelotus
Summary: SLASH. The Dark Knight. Chapter 2 is up. After Bruce gives up the Batman game, the Joker pays him a surprise visit to remind him of the heady intoxicant known as 'power'. Pretty graphically violent.
1. Dead Bats Don't Bite

Disclaimer: I do not own the movie(s) that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Title: Dead Bats Don't Bite  
Author: c. dirt (mui)  
Summary: After Bruce Wayne has given up his Batman identity, Joker pays him a surprise visit to remind him of the heady intoxicant known as 'power'.  
Rating: NC-17 for graphic violence and slashy sex.  
Pairings: Bruce Wayne/Joker  
Disclaimer: The Dark Knight is not my movie. I don't own any of the characters including in this fic. It's simply selfish entertainment, and I'm making no profit.

Bruce was tired.

He was done. Cards dealt, lost, deck cleared.

It was over.

In a way, he felt relieved. His mind was reeling at the possibilities of what it could all mean—freedom. The freedom to go back to being human, to go back to being _normal_… if such a thing was even conceivable. With all the money of the Wayne estate at his fingertips he had nothing else to worry about. After all, ideals are for heroes, activists, vigilantes—comic book shit. That's what they called him, you know; a vigilante, a _symbol_. But how much damage had he caused? How many people had died? He could still smell gunpowder, blood, smoke, burning bodies. Batman was no hero. He was a shot in the dark, he did it all wrong—Bruce could not embody that which Batman was supposed to be, it was an inhuman task, it was a lie.

But he had fooled everybody.

He was a fool.

Bruce had another glass of wine. It was his fifth, and it was late.

He had shut the blinds. He couldn't bear to look at the city any more. The lights from all the buildings of Gotham seem to enhance his headache, make his heart pull in his chest. So the manor was dark, darker than usual at 3 a.m. on a Thursday night. The Joker was locked up, Twoface was dead… the city was quiet and Batman was no longer needed. Batman was dead.

Bruce walked into his bedroom. Like everything else in his apartment it was huge, cavernous, and sparse. He sat on the bed. It was cold but he didn't care.

Just one more glass of wine…

And goodnight, Gotham.

He felt something cold against his face.

At first he thought it was a breeze. An icy chill off the Icelandic coast… his nose catching the scent of wild flowers, a vast open blue sky…

Was he dreaming?

"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey." A familiar, high-pitched voice…

Who is that? Is that _him_? No, it can't be…

"I said, WAKE UP!"

The blade sliced his cheek, pain shooting through his eye socket. Bruce's eyes snapped open.

But it was dark.

Only vaguely, like a Francis Bacon painting, could the brutal colors be seen… lavender, a shock of royal purple, insane peacock green…

The Joker was perched, like a flamboyant psychotic bird, on Bruce's chest like the proverbial Devil himself, legs splayed to either side. The bastard didn't even bother to take off his brogues and he had tracked dirt all over the bedsheets. He had that _knife_, that damn _knife_ up against Bruce's lip, his class act, his practiced routine… and now Bruce's blood was dipping into his own mouth.

Sleep paralysis, and that stubborn resonant drunkeness kept him stiff for a moment, but his body seemed to jerk up of it's own accord to wrestle the maniac off of him.

Oh, but Joker was good, and he was a clever act—he tightened his knees around Bruce's hips and rode out the thrusts like a cowboy riding a bull. Then Bruce punched him squarely in the jaw, and he fell back with a joyful shriek, and Bruce managed to flatten his hand into the man's scrawny neck.

"How did you find me?" A good question to start with. Bruce's mind was reeling, really. Out of all the priorities filed away in his double-life, he had made sure not to reveal his true identity to any of his enemies—so how did the bastard know where to find him, much less escape from his cell? _How_?

A cackle of shrill squeals. The well-dressed loon writhed on the bed, flipping the stubby knife around in a gloved hand, feet kicking, grinding soot into the sheets… he swung his arm to stab, Bruce grabbed it with his a hard fist and pinned it to the bed.

"How did you know?" Bruce lifted his hand from the man's neck, and threw a battery of punches, bloodying bare knuckles; each time catching the Joker in the mouth, spraying blood across his smeared makeup mask. "Tell me!"

"Oh, but don't you wish you knew, bat…" Tongue lashing out to taste his own blood, "or should I say, Bruuuuuce Wayne? Of Wayne enterprises?"

He struck him again, twice.

"Fancy that…"

Punch, smack.

"…what would the world do if they knew where you hang your suit at night, hmm? Would they love you, grovel at your feet, beg for you to save their souls? Oh, no, no, no, no…"

Another one across the nose, that one shut him up for a moment.

After a brief pause the joker just started to squeal, shake vibrato. Finally he dropped the knife, it clattered hollowly on the hardwood floor. "Oh, hit me hit me hit me!" He cackled, groaned…

Bruce pulled off him then. He was furious, sweating, mind racing. The wine haze still hung in front of him, and he stared at the disheveled psychopath, who lay with his vest open, chest heaving up and down, eyes glimmering…

"You could kill me now, you know, but you won't. You just want to throw me around a little. You like it. It makes you hard."

"You're a sick fuck," Bruce breathed.

"You are," Whispered the Joker. He slid slowly to his side, keeping those wet, kohl-smeared eyes locked on Wayne. "Don't tell me you never liked it. The power… of holding someone's life in your hands." A gloved hand reached out, grazed across Bruce's bare stomach. Bruce grabbed the offending arm and twisted Joker onto his stomach, pinning his wrist to his back, shoving his face into the mattress, powder makeup smeared everywhere now, but once again, he didn't care…

"Surely you don't prance around in that skin-tight leather get-up for no good reason!" A barrage of laughter ensued. Bruce twisted his arm further.

"What do you want from me? I'M DEAD. Don't you understand? I quit. I'm done." He squeezed the arm harder, could feel it almost breaking under his grip, dug his elbow into Joker's ribs… he felt the man squirming under him, could feel the heat coming off of his body from his cheap polyester coat. Was he… was he _enjoying this_?

"Tell me, Batty, when you fucked Rachel, did she stay quiet like a good girl, or did she _beg for it_?"

Joker was toying with him. That was it, he came here to torment him.

Bruce lost it.

Bruce flipped him over, climbed on top of him, shoved a knee into his gut and started to pummel him. He crashed his fists into him until his hands were numb, until he was almost crying. His face was hot, his body burned in a frenzy of anger, frustration, confusion.

It wasn't until he could barely lift his fist that he realized the Joker was moaning, gasping erratically… and that his narrow hips were shoved against Bruce's thigh, his cock burning hot through his green trousers.

"Masochist," Bruce gasped. His lips formed the word before he could even think it.

"You need it…" gasped the Joker. He was literally drooling. His hand drew down, he dipped it into the waist of pants, wrist wiggling… he was touching himself. Bruce was struck dumb. Then he felt a twinge zap down his spine. He just sat there for a moment, unable to make sense of it all, the Joker's daring eyes locked on his, that pink tongue flashing out to lap the copper taste of blood, hand yanking south of the equator. "We need eachother… Bat… Man."

"I don't need you." Bruce whispered. He started to sink back, slide off of the madman who was by now manipulating himself with the utmost skill.

Joker sat up slowly. With his other hand he wiped at his mouth, started licking the blood off his fingers. He got to his knees. He crawled towards Bruce Wayne. He sank down, put his face on Bruce's groin, dragged his lips over the silken material of his unstrung pajama pants…

"Let me help you…" He smirked.

He couldn't move.

And Joker grabbed him just then.

And he was…

"Hard…." Joker said.


	2. Struggle

It was like he was paralyzed. He simply couldn't move.

Maybe it was the wine…

Maybe it was Joker's gloved hand sliding torturous, slow up and down his clothed erection…

Or maybe it was Joker's face.

In that moment the Joker almost had a serene look upon that scarred, maddened face of his… Bruce witnessed it in it's brief lifetime in the dimly lit stillness of the bedroom. Eyelids hanging, the smeared black makeup making the eyes burn, his lips closed, the reddened scars seeming to push his mouth out, make it puffy, fuckable…

Oh, he wasted no time. Joker pulled the material down and stuck out that wicked tongue, went to slip it along the underside of Bruce's thick cock…

He was hard… it was so hard it was almost throbbing…

What was he doing??

Bruce reacted then. Kicking his legs out he went to grab the madman's shoulders and push him off of him, yelling at the same time—"Get off of me!"

Joker was ready for him, grabbed those wrists, pushed himself on top of him. The buttons on his lapel were cold, they grazed against Bruce Wayne's naked skin, made his skin prickle. He slammed his hips down upon Bruce's naked erection, the rough texture of his trousers encasing his own hard-on. The pressure was rough, controlled. He was like a calculating animal. Like a dog.

Joker smirked down at his adversary, let out a cheerful whistle of accomplishment. "Ready to quit so soon in the game, Mister Wayne? I thought you were… enjoying the attention."

Bruce swung his head. He didn't want to believe it. He was overpowered. He felt raped, ashamed, miserable. He was bursting at the seams. His mind swam like he was still drunk, his cock twitched, his body flattened against the Joker's. What had the bastard done to him?

"You drugged me," Bruce gasped.

"Now why would I do a thing like that?" A thrust came from Joker's narrow hips, pressing their cocks together.

Bruce let out a torrent of ragged breaths. He was losing it. He was starting to sweat, unwravel, his skin was so hot…

Joker rolled his hips again, causing an electric collision of sensation. He slid one hand from Bruce's wrist, trailed it up the toned, lanky arm, started to play a gloved fingertip across Bruce's lips.

"I could… just rape you, you know… I could make you scream, Bat."

Bruce's heart spasmed in his chest. He had lost it now, eyes squeezed shut… his hand, recently free from Joker's fierce grip, went to grab… something. Something to ground himself. Something so he wouldn't go completely insane.

What he could up grabbing was Joker's thigh, pulling the leg inward, rubbing his hips deeper into his own.

Joker squealed, "What's that now…" With that he grabbed either side of Bruce's head, started to pull on his sweat-slicked hair, pull at the sides of his face, distorting it, grinning. "Yes, yes, there, there… look how well you're catching on." He started to pump his hips, rhythmically this time, drawing that electric spasm out of Bruce each time.

He dared to open his eyes then. Joker had a look of perverse triumph on his face, but he was also flushed, caught up in the game of power, wearing an erotic limp sneer. Buttons on his shirt had come undone, revealing slick, unmarked white flesh.

Without thinking, Bruce's rough hand climbed up Joker's thigh, giving his buttock a brutal squeeze. Joker reacted with a "hmmph", stopped the clashing of his hips for a moment…

It was.. instinctual.

He didn't know, didn't _care_ to avoid the situation any more. That path was long since lost. Now it was about something else… control.

He had grabbed Joker by the throat and thrown him down on the bed. He hooked his fingers into the pretty silver-buttoned collar of his elaborate shirt… such a shame for his tailor, really… and ripped it open with a gorgeous swing. The buttons flew with a delicious whisper, and then a fragile clatter on the wooden floor, combined with the sound of the Joker gasping, not like a clown for once, but like a man… Bruce then got his hands onto the belt on Joker's trousers, and pulled it until it snapped from the loops… Joker was tittering with erratic gasps at this point.

He tugged the trousers off. There was some resistance. A few punches solved this. Finally he was straddling him, had his knees on Joker's hands. Their naked legs were tangled. He shoved his fingers against Joker's plump, wet red lips, grabbing the side of his face harshly.

"Fucking suck on them."

With his face pinched, the Joker's eyebrows were lifted, and tentatively he let Bruce's fingertips slide inside his mouth… his tongue circled them, then he began to suck, like…

"Like a good boy." He muttered around the obtrusive fingers. Even with his mouth full, he was still grinning…

"Shut up." Bruce slapped him hard across the face. His breath came out his nose. His hips bounced. Bruce crammed his fingers down into Joker's throat, until he gagged a little, then gagged some more, and mumbled somewhat, wiggling his wrists that were trapped under persistent, heavy knees.

He yanked his hand out then, started to choke Joker, just because he liked the feeling of the man's throat compressing against his palm.

He grabbed himself, his fingers covered in spit. It slicked over his organ. Joker was hard too--but this wasn't about mutual satisfaction. Joker wanted _rape_, he was going to get it.

He rubbed against Joker's ass. Joker squirmed, gagged, then he stared at him with one eerie, open eye. He squeezed Joker's neck harder… hated that eye looking at him, hated that breathless sneer on Joker's face… he pushed in. There was at first, a spasm of Joker's naked hips, which felt particularly good—it was good because now Joker's eyes were closed. Now he was out of air.

He was raping him, he was on top of him, inside of him…

He had power over the Joker.

The thrusts became disoriented, wild. Bruce was breathing raggedly. His body was slipping, his hands slicked with sweat. Finally Joker got a sliver of air into his lungs, and he started to reel, moaning, gasping openly. He made no effort to hide that he was truly enjoying being ravaged, lapping with crazy lashes of his tongue at the blood that had pooled at the corner of his scarred mouth. His hands came free and he simply threw them behind his head, biting his lip, staring at Bruce, eating Bruce with his eyes.

He didn't want to see, but he couldn't turn away. Joker with his mouth hanging open, strings of green hair stuck to his face. He looked down, saw himself, he was _fucking him_. Saw Joker's swollen cock rubbing against his belly. Realized numbly that Joker's makeup had been mostly wiped from his face by various beatings, by sweat, by spit… he looked almost human.

Human except for his eyes.

Human except for his delighted squeals, each time Bruce grazed his insides.

He watched Joker bite the tip of his glove, slip it off one hand… somehow this was maddeningly erotic, seeing the slender lengths of Joker's surprisingly clean fingers. The hand slid down, grasped his own member… the other reached up, grabbed Bruce by the hair.

"Don't stop." He said.

Bruce didn't. He kept going, felt himself burning up, felt himself ready to burst. Joker was getting himself off, their bodies were pressed tightly against eachother, Bruce had his hand on Joker's throat, choking him periodically… and of course, each time Joker gagged or whined or ran out of breath, he felt his world wobble…

Then he came. It was explosive. He squeezed Joker's throat tightly, until he too, went rigid, his legs pressing tight at either side of Bruce's body, cock spurting across his chest (and a bit onto his open coat), the only sound escaping his lips a few pathetic gasps for air.

When Bruce didn't let go, Joker punched him. It was a friendly punch.

He sat back, flat on his ass, wiped blood and cum from his lips. That, that was deserved. He was still hot, trembling, he was still heavy and drunk on sex. He felt the walls sucking at him. He felt like he was going to fall through the floor.

Joker coughed loudly, rubbed at his throat. "You know what, Bat Man?"

"What." Bruce was barely audible. He was staring at a glistening, peculiarly-shaped cumstain on the comforter.

Joker sat up, observing the damage to his prized pinstripe shirt. Then he put his fingers to his lips and sucked the cum off of them. He watched Bruce the entire time, hoping it would make him absurdly uncomfortable.

Finally Bruce glanced at him. His face flushed when he saw what Joker had turned into; pink-cheeked, wide-eyed, shagged and beaten—but that wasn't the part that set Bruce Wayne's stomach to tightening. It was that Joker had one finger at the corner of his lips, he was grinning, he was laughing, he was delighted.

He already had his pants on, whereas Bruce sat there, naked, overcome.

His footsteps clicked in the echoing bedroom.

Eventually he was standing right there next to him.

His soft, naked fingers fit themselves under Bruce's chin, turned his face towards his.

His eyes were wide, insane. They locked Bruce into a commanding stare. They were depthless, gleaming black, they went soft only for a moment, when he said, in a deep, unfamiliar voice: "I understand you."

He kissed him. His lips were warm, wet. The kiss was brief but firm, salty, masculine. Bruce didn't have time to respond.

Joker was gone.

Just to make sure, Bruce turned his head to the floor, scanned it for the knife.

The knife was gone too.

And amazingly enough, so were Joker's shirt buttons.

Clever bastard.


End file.
